There's Something About Arthur
by InsanityInReverse
Summary: [He can feel Arthur's heartbeat picking up. He can feel his own skip a beat.] A tale of Arthur and Francis, of hearts over headphones, and a changing relationship that really isn't all that different from their norm. [FrUK, oneshot]


**A/N **;; I posted this on Tumblr a couple days ago, and I figure now would be a good time to upload it here, as well. This was my first time ever writing FrUK, so if I failed epically, then I apologize.

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**There's Something About Arthur**

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Arthur is like electricity.

He is like the sunlight pouring in through the window, bright as a beacon, with tousled, messy blond hair, sharp green eyes, and pale skin that looks so smooth - almost like porcelain - and oh so _touchable. _He all but glows where he stands, where the lights streaming in from the wall opposite the one he's leaning on illuminates his figure. His arms are crossed over his chest, worn book bag hanging over his shoulder, staring down at the speckled tile floor with an irritated frown that has Francis Bonnefoy, resident flirt and infamous pervert on campus, stopping in his tracks.

And Francis is captivated.

He had thought it would just be a passing interest - Arthur was, after all, something new to look at it. But as the days pass, Francis' interest never waning, he finds himself watching the new student closer and closer.

Arthur is shy, quiet, and rather withdrawn. Half the time, he's listening and jotting down notes, diligent and hardworking and focused, muttering explicit curses under his breath and glancing between his notes and the board ahead. The other half of the time, Francis notices him staring off into space, his lips quirking up at something perhaps only he can see. A few times, he had caught the boy chuckling at nothing, alone in the hallway or standing in front of his locker.

The other students attempt to strike up conversations with him, but he always either remains silent, politely ignoring them until they leave, or he glances up at them and glares until they leave him alone. It's a rather cute glare, Francis thinks, watching as Arthur's thick eyebrows furrow, meeting in the middle, his eyes sharpening and glinting in the light.

But Francis is not deterred. He comes to stand in front of Arthur's desk just as class is dismissed, flashing a disarming grin, waiting for Arthur to look up from where he was packing his stuff. It takes a moment, but he does notice the foreign presence in front of him, looking up as, just as Francis had expected, his eyebrows furrowed together - and really, they're such abominable things; he would have to find a way to take a pair of tweezers to them at some point.

Before Francis even has the chance to open his mouth, a flash of recognition passed through Arthur's eyes and his cute little glare shifted into something more like a scowl. "Remove yourself from my presence, you filthy French frog. I don't want to catch a disease," he hissed.

Francis opened his mouth to object, only slightly surprised that Arthur already seemed to know about him, but before he can even get past "Mon cher—", he has the front of a three-hundred-fifty page hardcover textbook shoved into his face. He can feel the blood dripping from his nose down his lips and onto his uniform as he lowers the textbook from his face, catching a glimpse of the triumphant smirk Arthur sent in his direction before stomping out of the room.

And thus, a beautiful relationship began.

He does not tell Gilbert or Antonio where he had gotten the bloody nose from, even as Antonio dabbed at his face with a handkerchief and Gilbert demanded to know who had injured him. He does not tell them because he already knows that Arthur is interesting, unique, and that he will most certainly be a challenge - and also because he didn't want the German or the Spaniard planning any sneak attacks on Arthur, despite that the English bastard deserved it for almost breaking his beautiful face.

From there, the clear antagonism Arthur held towards him was the most talked about thing on campus. After several weeks, however, it eventually fades out of conversation. Their loud arguments don't turn heads anymore, and crowds don't flock towards them at the very first signs of a fight breaking out. Either way, neither Francis nor Arthur cared.

Arthur hated him, and that was that.

However, during more peaceful times between them, he could sometimes catch Arthur staring at him from across the room. He had heard the stories of Arthur coming to his aid when people spoke badly of him, about how Arthur had nearly bitten the head off of anyone else that insulted the Frenchman (other than himself, of course). And every Wednesday, when their respective clubs met up, Arthur would bring him a large coffee, one cream and two sugars - his favourite - and they would sit in companionable silence, neither them speaking in fear of breaking some kind of moment between them.

Nearly six months after Arthur had transferred into school, and five and a half months since the Englishman's supposed hatred of him had begun, Francis strides up to Arthur and invites him out for lunch. Of course, it isn't that simple. He had to mock, prod, and tease Arthur before he casually mentions that he knows Arthur forgot his wallet, and he would be willing, _just this once, _to pity him and treat him to lunch.

Actually, Arthur hadn't forgotten his wallet. When questioned about how he had known, Francis just answered that it was a feeling he had. In reality, he knew Arthur had no money because the Englishman's wallet was in his back pocket, and it had been there all morning. Sure, he'd had to pay Lovino, the campus' very own bad-mood-personified Italian, twenty dollars in order for him to grab Arthur's wallet for him, but it was money well spent.

And the same day the next week, Francis had found Arthur in the same spot, long after his wallet had been returned to him, looking disgruntled and lonely. He hadn't put up much of a fight when Francis once again extended the invitation of lunch. It had happened again the following week, in the same spot at the same time. It was really more of a tradition now than anything.

And still, Arthur never gets boring.

There is something in the way that Arthur's nose crinkles in disgust as he steps on to the graffiti covered bus, with its gum-covered seats and footstep patterned floor. There's something about the way the Englishman's brilliant green eyes light up when he is irritated that catches Francis' attention each and every time; it's something that he finds himself vying for. There's something in the way that Arthur looks up from his notebook that a moment ago he had been furiously sketching in, muttering something under his breath that went along the lines that he hadn't thought Francis would come.

There's just something about Arthur that Francis can't hold himself back from, but he doesn't know what exactly it is.

What he does know, however, is that there is something intimate about sharing a pair of headphones.

The two black cords twine together into a tangled mess of wire and rubber. The end of it eventually leads to an old iPod, situated between their bodies. Arthur is leaning up against him, his shoulder against Francis' shoulder, and the Frenchman can feel the heat radiating off of his body.

He's never felt more alive in his life.

They had visited the museum that day, Arthur muttering something about how uncultured he was and that this visit would do him some good. The white plaster walls of museum had been empty of people, and their footsteps had echoed in the hollow passageways. Arthur talks animatedly about abstract impressionism and minimalism and pointillism, pointing excitedly at the canvases hung plainly for display.

Francis enjoys art, but Arthur's words don't mean a lot to him. It's oddly endearing to him that way Arthur thinks that Francis is actually listening to what he's saying. And he finds himself smiling and calling after Arthur as he storms out of the room when Francis doesn't answer his question.

When they sit together on the bus stop bench, shoulder to shoulder with their breath mingling together in the air, it's not all that uncomfortable as it might of been just a few months earlier. Just a few months earlier, they would have possibly killed each other in such a small, confined space. Just a few months ago, Arthur Kirkland would have never thought of inviting Francis Bonnefoy out with him to view a new display.

Outside, it's raining, and even with music in his ear, Francis can still hear the strangely comforting beat of the rain against the roof. He had always liked the rain - liked the smell, the sound, the feel of it against his skin. But Arthur doesn't - instead, he hates it. He had complained about that to Francis once, on one of their lunch dates, recalling that in the small town in England, where he had grown up, it had rained more often than not, and he had rarely seen the sun not covered with clouds.

But despite the turn in their relationship, it hasn't changed that much. On Wednesdays, Arthur treats Francis to coffee and, if he's feeling particularly charitable that day, perhaps a muffin as well. On Thursdays, Arthur waits crouched under the maple tree on campus, waiting until Francis comes and fetches him so they can go to lunch together. They still fight, they still argue, and they still bruise each other relentlessly. Francis still listens to Arthur ramble on when he's drunk, and he's still the one who drags the Englishman home. Arthur still bites the head off of anyone who dares to insult Francis other than him, and he still makes time to respond to each and every one of Francis' emails and texts, even if he makes a show of complaining of the trouble Francis causes him.

When Arthur's head topples over in sleep - he had dragged Francis out of bed early, so they could be the first ones at the museum - it lands awkwardly against Francis' temple instead of on his shoulder. They both sit there, foreheads touching for a few stray minutes, until Francis' hand brushes up against Arthur's, and the shock that passes through their bodies jolts them both fully awake instantly.

Arthur stares at him, eyes wide in apprehension. Distantly, Francis can still hear the music playing.

Francis leans in. There's a split second of hesitation before Arthur does the same.

Their lips brush together, and in the background, lightning illuminates the sky.

He can feel Arthur's heartbeat picking up. He can feel his own skip a beat.

Arthur smells like rain and musty museum elevators. He feels smooth, soft, and flawless. And he tastes like cigarettes and mints.

The words to the song have grown faint as they weave into the air, smoky and forgotten.

The sound never actually reaches either of their ears.

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**A/N **;; I wrote this in between playing God of War, Pokemon Black and White 2, and watching a few episodes of the fourth season of Supernatural. Yeah. It was a good night.

Yeah, I know the title is boss. No need to tell me. I hope sarcasm can be read over the internet.


End file.
